Foggy Lake
by TheRedRidingHood
Summary: You can never go home again. That's what Tim Gutterson has known since he bailed on his home town at 17. Now he has to go back, for the funeral of a child and old suspicions are stirring up the bad blood between Tim and the residents of his old home town. Sent along to keep an eye on Tim, Raylan Givens is, for once, along for someone elses ride, trying to keep up and figure out jus
1. Chapter 1

_"Tim?" when he tries to spot her it's like she's always just on the edge of his vision. When he moves, turns, so does she, always out of sight, always just out of reach._

 _The lakeside is quiet and the thick fog covers everything. Tim feels like he's alone on an island. Beyond the fog the ground stops, becomes nothing. He's afraid to move forwards. If the world suddenly ends, he doesn't know what he'll fall into._

 _"Tim," she calls again and he turns, catches a glimpse of thick dark hair. "Will you come with me?"_

 _He feels small and much younger than twelve. He's cold and somewhere out in the fog something is moving. He can hear it huff as it breathes, hear it grunt. He can sense it's hunger, it's anger. It's not a good something. It's the kind that will rip and tear. It's come for Meredith. He knows that but he can't find her to protect her._

 _"Tim, will you come with me?"_

 _He reels as a shade flits by him once again._

 _Out in the fog the monster is screaming._

Tim Gutterson ran. His chest burned around every breath and sweat ran down over every inch of his skin. His eyes burned, his muscles ached and cried out for peace, for rest but he ignored them. His feet slapped in time with his breath, the impact juddering up through his legs, his body, rattling his skull a little but he paid it no mind.

He was home. The streets of Foggy Lakes were beginning to glow gold as the sun sank behind the horizon and the outdoor lights and street lamps began to glow to life. After a pre-dawn to the long arduous drive home, Tim and Raylan Givens had been mentally and physically drained. They had checked into their motel room, fallen into their respective narrow beds and slept like the dead.

At least until Tim was woken by a strange and unpleasant dream about Meredith Rodham. He woke filled with uncomfortable fidgety energy, his head thick and addled. He had changed into running gear and headed into the night, hoping to catch the air cooling down, but it was only getting warmer. Still, he ran. He wondered if it might storm, hoped it would to clean out the dry and sticky air, wash away some of the dust.

As he ran he noted the changes that had come to his home town. Some money had found its way in and it showed in the renovated store fronts, the franchises cropping up around the slowly expanding streets. Tim ran past a funky vintage store, recalled it's days as a dusty thrift store where Tim would dig through boxes in the hope of finding old comics or cool old sci-fi books, the library where he first found a copy of 'Dune' and had his pre-teen mind absolutely and permanently blown. The building had been renovated, modernised. Signs promised free internet, free wi-fi, a franchised coffee kiosk.

The bowling alley where his dad spent half his life getting hammered had gotten a family friendly make over, promised discounts for kids and birthday parties. Tim remembered it having the cheapest bar in town and a happy 'hour' that ran from 7 til 10. It was the starter bar for the town residents looking to get dangerously drunk at as little cost as they could. Now it promised a free cake for your kids birthday, shaped like the toy of their choice.

The ache and tightness in his legs was such that he knew he would have to stop soon, turn back, take some manner of a break, but he pushed on. He passed a diner where his father, in rare burst of good nature would take them to indulge in greasy burgers, fries and shakes. It had been cleaned up, shined up nice, brighter paint on the walls, better lighting and a menu that offered a vegetarian option. It was open, the lights on, the clientele inside laughing and chatting as they spoke. Tim saw a sign offering take out, made a mental note.

A new plaza had been built on the site of the town hall fire. The centuries old pine building had been burned to ash one Halloween when Tim was six years old. He was dressed up as a soldier and the school was taking a group of school children out trick or treating when they first smelled the burning wood and saw the orange glow on the night sky. They had run to look and watched the roaring flames eat the wood away to nothing, embers racing for the sky like fireflies who knew something humans didn't.

The new plaza had grass and trees, comfortable benches and vintage street lamps to light it up, keep it safe. A few people walked around, sat on the grass, enjoying the last warm dark night. A group of teenagers hung out on one such bench, talking and sharing a joint that Tim could smell as he jogged past. They watched him calmly, as relaxed as everyone else in the park, or more so, in honesty.

The humidity was rising and for the first time Tim seriously considered stopping. He hadn't eaten or drunk anything like enough to have run this far and fast. But every time he slowed down he saw Meredith and the clawing discomfort of anxiety that was coiling in his gut would flare up, send a jolt of _something_ through his nervous system.

He tried to push through the flat, dull weakness flooding his legs, the feeling he had run through even his fumes.

He slowed down and he thought of Meredith Rodham. Gorge rose in his throat and without getting a say in the matter he doubled over and started to be sick.


	2. Chapter 2

Deputy US Marshal Raylan Givens felt like his head was both filled with and coated in cotton wool and when he realised Tim Gutterson had left their shared motel room, the mans bed empty and unmade, his sense of confusion doubled down.

He stumbled to the bathroom, into the shower and after a ten seconds of ice cold and ten minutes of nearly scalding hot water he was wide awake and could recall pertinent facts, like who in the hell he was, why he was in an unfamiliar motel room and stirring awake at almost nine at night.

He dried off and dressed as he got finished doing both he heard a knock at the door to the room and opened it to Tim Gutterson, uncomfortably pale and dripping with sweat. He wore joggers and a hoodie, had headphones slung around his shoulders, carrying a paper bag that smelled of burgers in one hand, and a bag of beers and bourbon in the other.

Tim walked in and crossed to the small breakfast table and laid the bags down. "Both are a quarter pounder and large fries," Tim told him.

He said nothing else, disappeared into the bathroom and Raylan heard the shower start up. He had questions, but without thinking too much about it he found he was heading for the table, reaching for a burger and digging in. The burger was pretty damn good, tender juicy meat wrapped in a semi sweet bun, piled high with fried onions and crisp lettuce. The fries were crisped to perfection and the beer, some local brew Raylan didn't recognise wasn't Raylan's favourite but it was cool and went perfectly with the meal.

When Tim emerged from the bathroom some time later, he wore his sweat pants but had draped his towel over his shoulders rather than put his soiled shirt back on, flashing his torso, slender, decently toned which wasn't a surprise for a former Ranger. He had a cursive L tattoed on his chest, a decent collection of scars, small and large that Raylan glimpsed at, then away from. He had seen them before, but they still drew his eye.

Tim crossed to an overnight bag on the end of his bed, digging around until he found a plain t-shirt to pull over his head and while he ruffled his hair with the towel to take out the worst of the water Raylan got a look at more scars on Tim's back. He spotted a cluster of bullet wounds under Tim's left shoulder blade that corresponded with a cluster of exit wounds on his front. There was what looked like a patch of burned skin on the back of his right bicep and a jagged network of angry red lines on his right hip, half concealed under the hem of his joggers.

He looked away, curious about each one but not sure it was right to ask. But he found himself looking back at the cluster of bullet wounds. He wasn't sure he understood how Tim had survived such a wound.

Tim, being Tim, being a former sniper for the Rangers, had a preternatural sense he was being watched and turned, caught Raylan staring at the family of bullet wounds. "You want to ask how they happened?" he asked in his typical level drawl, pulling a t-shirt on.

"Sorry," Raylan looked away, felt like a dick for staring.

"I don't mind," Tim took his seat at the table and unwrapped his food, broke open a beer and took a long dram.

Raylan frowned, suspicious of Tim's open attitude. Tim didn't exactly go out of his way to maintain his personal privacy but he certainly didn't share a lot about himself, ever, at any time since Raylan had met him.

"We're in my home town. My 'aloof badass' routine is blown all to shit," Tim pointed out.

"Mostly I want to know how the hell you're alive," Raylan said. He motioned to his own torso in the same location as the cluster of bullet wounds, "this…looks like it was very bad."

"It was," Tim agreed.

Raylan waited for the story but Tim had started on his burger and fries and seemed content to work on them a little while so Raylan joined him. After a while, Tim drew on his beer again. "I was on a mountain side doing shit I can't tell you about, but that involved shooting bad guys. Kid gets behind me, all of seventeen and he fires this 30 year old handgun into my back. Breaks some ribs, nicks a lung. Bled _everywhere_."

"Jesus," Raylan breathed. "How did you walk away from that?"

Tim shrugged, "I didn't know I was shot at first. Medics said it was probably shock."

"What happened to him? Kid who shot you?" Raylan asked.

He regretted it at once. Tim looked like he hadn't expected the question and he chewed the inside of his mouth. "I had to kill him," he said quietly.

Raylan fought not to sit in totally shocked silence. "How old were you?" he asked.

"About a week off've twenty," Tim told him.

Raylan shook his head, felt angry and a little sad at the same time. "Pretty clear cut case of self-defence," he said calmly, and Tim nodded.

"Yeah," he agreed. "Still…sucked." The final word was uttered with far more conviction and depth of meaning than you normally heard applied.

Raylan nodded. He knew what the simple expression was trying to say. Tim wasn't someone who wanted to kill people, certainly not someone who had gone to war with that specific goal. He absolutely wasn't someone who went to war to kill teenagers. His guilt about the act was obvious. His quiet process of locking it back away was more subtle, his expression closing off in small and careful ways.

They finished their food, their first beers, broke into their second each. "So, how'd you get out of it?" Raylan finally asked.

Tim blinked, remembered he hadn't finished his story. "I don't know. I'm told I dropped off comms sometime after we got the call they were retreating. They came looking for me and I'd crawled halfway down the mountain before I passed out."

"We got a badass over here," Raylan teased and Tim grinned, nodded.

"I was a little proud of that part," he admitted.

Raylan drew on his beer and glanced around the stuffy room, detective a stuffiness to the air.

"Wanna get out?" he asked.

Tim raised his eyes from the table top, looked half surprised. "You make a habit of going out drinkin' in Harlan?" he asked.

Raylan thought about it. "Kinda."

Tim laughed, but he was shaking his head no.

Raylan leant forwards, "Hear me out; we're running out of alcohol."

"We can buy more of that from a store," Tim countered.

Raylan let out a small groan. "You got to go out for a jog," he said. "You've walked all over, you've been in my _house."_

"Nothin' stopping you runnin'," Tim reminded him. "I can draw you a route."

Raylan sat in silence and let himself radiate sullenness. He pouted, slouched, sank down in his chair and generally made a big show of being bored.

Tim was watching the display, eyes lit with amusement. Raylan played it out a little longer before giving up and just staring directly at Tim.

"This gonna go on all night?" the younger man asked.

Raylan nodded. Tim rolled his eyes. "You can't wear the hat," He eyed Raylan's trademark Stetson that rested atop the bed Raylan had slept in.

"Deal" Raylan said. He liked his hat but this kind of clammy weather made it uncomfortable.

Tim took a deep breath and slowly nodded. "Fine. Anything at all happens, it's on you."


	3. Chapter 3

Tim changed into jeans, wore a vaguely familiar checked red shirt over his tee-shirt and they headed out. They got to the Main Street and they stood for a while.

Tim casually, as if it was no big deal at all, reached into his pockets and withdrew a lighter and a pack of cigarettes. He handled the pack like and old hat, tapping one out and raising it to his mouth to pinch between his lips, lighting it one handed. Every movement was fluid and Raylan felt like he was watching an old habit emerge.

Tim inhaled deep and held it for a few seconds before exhaling a long plume of smoke.

"You smoke?" Raylan was frowning deep.

"Not really," Tim said, taking a second drag.

Raylan blinked but he knew Tim well enough to know he wasn't going to elaborate until he was ready, if he ever was. Raylan had spent enough time with Tim to know this wasn't a regular thing, a current and ongoing habit, but he could recognise an experienced smoker when he saw one. If it was an old habit Tim had fallen back to, it probably wasn't a good sign.

"You alright?" he asked, the question obvious but Raylan not much caring.

Tim inhaled, scratched his eyebrow with the thumb of the same hand, tapped the ash off. He ignored the question and checked up and down the street, watching the few pedestrians, a car that cruised past slowly. Raylan waited a while and eventually Tim turned to him. "So, I left town when I was seventeen."

"That's adorable," Raylan said.

"I mean I never got to know the bars. I know most folks favoured the bowling alley since it was like 'Roadhouse'. I ran by before, looks…friendlier," Tim said, turning to lead the way.

"How like 'Roadhouse'?" Raylan asked. "You used to practice Tai Chi on the shores of your lake?"

"Only when I could be totally nude," Tim said.

Raylan laughed, a real one. The walk was a decent length, or Tim took a route that was, walking off their dinner and some of the beers they had already indulged. Tim smoked slowly, having to relight a few times but he managed each occasion without pausing or breaking his step.

Raylan had wondered if Tim might offer a commentary, a spoken tour but it didn't materialise. Tim spoke if Raylan asked something but he wasn't pointing out favoured spots or adding any context to what they saw.

"So many memories," Raylan said pointedly. "This is the corner where I first kissed Wendy Hornberger. Over there is where I threw the winning touchdown and saved the Youth Centre from demolition."

Tim watched the performance with a half-smile. Raylan spotted a diner with the same sign as the logo on the food Tim brought back. "When I graduated my daddy took me for a burger and fries in that there diner and he told me how proud he was of me."

Tim laughed this time, not just at Raylan's play acting. Both of them knew Raylan was engaging in the highest of fantasy at this point. If Arlo had ever taken Raylan out for food, Raylan would have assumed there was poison in it. And there would have been.

"When I graduated Arlo….actually he was in prison," Raylan recalled as he stretched his legs a little to catch up, having fallen behind the younger Marshal. Their difference in height was just enough that one or both had to adjust their pace to walk in step but they had gotten used to it long ago.

"I never bothered," Tim shook his head. "Picked up a GED, eventually."

Raylan settled into a rhythm beside the younger man. Their difference in height was just enough that one or both had to adjust their pace to walk in step but they had gotten used to it long ago.

"Any reason why you didn't? You seem smart enough. I mean you can spell your name and you hardly ever write reports in crayons anymore," Raylan told him, still teasing. They both understood the sincerity behind the words, their mutual jibes.

Raylan knew for a fact Tim was smart. Sometimes he found it a little intimidating. Tim barely spoke, read books about magical warrior princesses and once, when they had to baby sit a 12 year old witness, Tim talked with the boy for three hours about Pacman. But when he did speak it meant something. He favoured books written for teenagers, but simultaneously, Raylan had seen him finish an 800 page tome about Napoleon in thirteen days and Raylan was confident he had memorised every single word. And the discussion about Pacman had been an in depth exploration of the history of video gaming going back to the earliest days. He had been a sniper. He had to be intelligent.

"Rachel took my crayons away from me. But I can do my letters in pencil now. Next week; biros," Tim was playing along.

They walked on in a comfortable silence but one Raylan knew this time his question wasn't being ignored. He was getting used to how Tim talked about himself. It didn't come easily or totally naturally and it was a slow, sometimes halting process but Raylan didn't mind waiting it out.

Tim took a long drag and talked around it as he exhaled. "There was this thing with my dad," he said, "and when I got out of hospital he wouldn't let me move back in. I didn't have any couches to sleep on and it got harder to go to school, so I stopped."

Raylan blinked, "Hospital?"

"It was a pretty serious thing." Tim said mildly, becoming the living embodiment of the understatement. He finished his cigarette, crushing it against the wall so any remains of the cherry fell to the ground and dimmed and he threw the remains of the butt and filter in a trash can they walked past.

He turned a corner and they approached the bowling alley. A brightly lit sign told Raylan it was called Pins and they joined a few other customers approaching they door. Two families were leaving. One smiled and laughed at some private joke. The son, a kid of 12 was half skipping alongside his long legged father, talking animatedly, his hands drawing out shapes to emphasise his point. The older daughter walked with her mother and despite her 'too cool' Rock Chick outfit, she had her arm looped through her moms, showing off something on her phone.

Behind them a less happy family marched towards their car. Mom carried two grumpy toddlers, their faces and shirt fronts coated in sticky and half dried ice cream. Her husband marched behind a sulking tween girl who pouted and stomped her way across the lot.

Raylan and Tim watched them go. Another family left as they reached the door and headed inside. Tim pulled up short so close to the door hat Raylan almost ran into the back of him.

A large, hard to miss sign inside made it clear that after 10pm the 'Family Time' was over. Anyone underage had to leave and as they looked around Raylan began to understand the 'Roadhouse' conversation.

The bowling alley was basically two establishments; On one side, the alley with its colourful lights and milkshakes and big eyed cartoon faces painted on almost every surface. On the other, a real spit and sawdust bar with The lanes and brightly coloured family area of the alley were being shut down, the lights dimmed while pair of teenagers wrangled floor polishers in the lanes. Another kid cleaned off plastic, easy wipe tables and chairs, sweeping the remains of kid meals into a trash bag.

In the 'family' half a brightly coloured, franchised looking kiosk served hot food, candy and desserts. A few beers but a sign seemed to suggest a limit on how many you could have. Getting drunk before 10pm was a no no.

Tim was looking at a darker corner of the bowling alley. It was the house of the real bar, where all the fun happened. A house band was warmed up and setting the mood with some heavy, twangy guitars . Raylan could see the remains of what might have been a redneck style barricade around the stage. There were two pool tables set up in a nook just the right size

Behind the actual bar Raylan saw beers and spirits, the grown up drinks. A bartender was setting out bar snacks in plastic dishes, beer nuts and pretzels laid out in front eager patrons while her co-worker began to take the first of the orders from the eager patrons.

The men and women waiting to drink ran from young to old, fat to thin. Some slouched in wearing sweatpants and trucker hats while some were dressed up like the nights drinks would be the social highlight of the Season.

Tim visibly hesitated, wouldn't go further, but Raylan brushed by. "Go get a table before they fill up," he leaned in to be heard over the music.

Tim's posture was rigid, his shoulders locked up and Raylan caught the look on his face, wide eyes but the expression locked down, cold and stern.

Raylan carried on to the bar, leaning on it when he got there and pretending he wasn't blatantly checking that Tim had listened. He had, and Raylan spotted the slight frame weaving through a small group of chatting drinkers, heading for the most out of sight table he could find.

Raylan noticed the locals notice Tim. There was curiosity on a few faces, attraction for the handsome young Marshal on others. Some tried to recognise him, some looked like they already may, or at least realised he wasn't a total stranger. Raylan drew a few stares himself. He was taller than a lot of people and most assuredly a stranger to everyone in the bar. He was good looking too and it drew equal parts attraction and ire. He used his powers for evil, flashing a grin at the barmaid when he caught her eye and she sashayed across to him.

"Can I get your and your friend a drink?" she asked over the music.

"Two beers, two bourbons," Raylan asked. "Each."

She nodded, acting impressed and turned away to fill the orders. Raylan looked around for Tim, spotted at a table set in a corner.

She filled the order and his subtle flirting saved him a few dollars and won them a free tray of chips and dip. Raylan carried he beers and chips over to Tim and set them down, returning for the bourbons and to collect his change. He spotted the barmaid a ways down the bar but as he waited the manager, or at least a middle aged dude who looked like an aging biker and radiated boredom crossed with his change in hand. "Hey, you visitin'?" the manager asked as he dropped a couple of bills and some change into Raylan's waiting palm.

"Just for a few days," Raylan nodded.

"You got people around here?" the guy asked, playing 'casual curiosity' with admirable conviction.

"No sir," Raylan shook his head.

"Your friend?" the manager asked him.

Raylan frowned, taken aback by the question. The tone of it was different, blunter.

"Pardon?" he asked.

"Your friend," the manager jerked his chin towards Tim over in his corner. "He got people? He looks so familiar it's drivin' me crazy."

Raylan didn't even consider saying yes, but he wasn't sure why. "I wouldn't know. We work together." He grinned wide, like he was a moron and buzzed and only half following the exchange.

He took the drinks, turned away and headed back to their table but found himself decide not to tell Tim about the barmans questions.

Back in Lexington Tim had told Raylan and their acting chief and friend, Rachel Brooks about the funeral for a girl who died twenty years ago. He had no plans to attend the service but on request he intended to visit with the girls mother, tell her his account of the day her daughter died. There was, it appeared, some dispute over the facts. Tim hadn't said much more, but it had been enough that Rachel decided he needed an escort.

Now, Raylan found himself on edge. He took his seat, set out their drinks and the snacks and joined Tim in people watching, checking faces, noticing the attention they were being paid, working out if it was the wrong kind or not.

While they were definitely being watched and noticed but so far, no one was _too_ interested.

The atmosphere was nice, the music was good and they sat and listened, drank their drinks, ate their chips. Tim was by no means relaxed but he tried to be, watching the band calmly, impassively. He was doing that 'sniper' thing where he disappeared, became utterly still. The eeriest part was that he didn't just freeze. He seemed to be able to withdraw his very presence from the air around him. Raylan knew from experience that people had a natural instinct for the presence of others. It was why you could return to a quiet house and know if it was empty or if someone was inside, unseen.

Tim could turn that off. If Raylan looked away, he felt like he was sitting alone rather than sharing a table with a co-worker and friend.

"You do that as a kid or learn it in the Army?" he found he was asking Tim, picking up his beer and taking a sip. He rested it atop his knee rather than back on the table, the cool glass pleasant against his fingertips.

Tim glanced at him. "Drinking?"

"That," Raylan motioned towards Tim, indicating the posture, the careful stillness. Even Tim's glance had been a tiny, almost imperceptible movement of his head, so taut and controlled that it looked artificial, like Tim was a machine. "Blending in. Doin' your impression of a tiger in the long grass."

"I learned to be quiet a long time ago," Tim said, another of those vague allusions to something sad and horrible a long time ago.

They finished their drinks and Raylan went back for more. The flirtatious young barmaid served him the same order again but this time her nosy boss didn't turn up to muscle in so Raylan scored more snacks and she promised to try and discretely drop a half bottle of bourbon off at their table if they stayed past midnight.

The place was busy but the mood stayed pleasant, most people enjoying their good time and their buzz and their few, responsibility free hours. Tim's drinks got to him and he began to unwind, fractionally and slowly, getting more comfortable in his seat, getting into the music. They began to talk about music, what they liked and didn't and Raylan wasn't surprised to hear Tim's tastes were eclectic, his knowledge detailed and expansive.

Tim finished his beer. "I'll be back," he rose, heading for the exit. Raylan, a little merry, was briefly confused but he remembered the cigarettes and Tim's new old habit that he wouldn't admit to having.

He let him go. Over the bar a TV had been turned on and there was some form of sports on. Raylan tuned out a little, let the music lull him, watched the brightly coloured screen flicker and move. He noticed movement and though he was tipsy a few different instincts made him turn. He saw three guys leaving, trailing out in a line like they were boarding a bus. One of them glanced back, caught Raylan's eye and looked away quickly.

Raylan watched them go, feeling a faint trill of something like alarm and when he turned back to their table he began to realise he wasn't quite sure how long Tim had been gone. He was on his feet and weaving through the crowds without much thought about the process but the bar was pretty rammed by that point. It took more time than he would like to pick his way to the door, grumbling to himself about fire safety and overcrowding.

When he finally reached the outside the air was just as thick and heavy as it had been indoors and he grimaced, glanced skyward in the hopes he could somehow spot the signs of approaching rain, something heavy that would wash the air clean, but there was nothing that suggested relief.

He glanced around, saw a small crowd of those who had gone outside to smoke but he couldn't spot Tim. He couldn't spot the three men who had filed out of the bar either. He glanced around, saw the narrow alley way that ran along the side of the building and turned towards it, picking up pace the closer he got.

He rounded the corner in time to see Tim's skinny ass get tossed into the side of the dumpster. He was back up again as soon as he touched the ground and he came up swinging. His closed fist slammed into the gut of one attacker who had a crop of red hair, so hard the bigger man folded in half, and he turned to a second, a blonde, with murder in his eyes. A third, a brunette intercepted, managed to catch one arm, twist it so he could get at the other. Tim was restrained and the second assailant moved fast, one fist crashing into Tim's solar plexus before he struck out twice, and fast, at Tim's face.

It all happened in the time it took Raylan to sprint into the alley way and grab the collar of the blonde, yanking backwards as hard as he could. The third man let Tim go to face Raylan and the younger Marshal fell to the ground, wheezing and gasping for air. Raylan dodged the wild swing by the third guy and backhanded him across the face, sending him reeling to the ground.

"Hey!" Raylan turned, got a glimpse of a uniform and a badge and threw his hands up quickly.

"US Marshals!" He barked automatically, though here there was a good chance it meant nothing since they were in town on personal business. He ducked down, hauled Tim to his feet, making damn sure the bloodied face got caught in the uniforms flashlight beam.

"The hell is goin' on?" the cop was tall bulky but since he was behind the light Raylan couldn't say much else.

"Near as I can tell they jumped my partner here," Raylan said, keeping his free hand open, supporting Tim more than he was happy about with the other.

"Henderson? Steve, that you? The fuck you doin'?" the deputy strode into the alleyway, easily convinced of his own control of the situation.

The groaning men, drunks, slowly got to their feet and as they did Raylan moved himself and Tim away from them

"They got any reason to jump your partner?" The deputy asked but he was letting Raylan move away.

"None as near as I know," Raylan said honestly.

Tim lurched, pushed himself away from Raylan and was sick noisily on the ground. "He been drinkin'?" the deputy asked pointedly.

"We're at a bar," Raylan stated, making sure his tone reflected his frustration at even being asked..

The deputy shook his head, stood amongst the drunks as they all got upright, all glaring not at Raylan, but Tim, still Tim. The young Marshal was pushing himself up on the wall and Raylan sensed him move, heading back to the fight. He stepped backwards without taking his eyes of the deputy, stepped into Tim, pushed him back.

"I'll fuck you up, Gutterson!" the blonde croaked , barely able to stand upright.

The Deputy turned like he was on a wheel, eyes locking on the furious young Marshal. "Tim?!"

Raylan sensed Tim go still, try and do the disappearing thing.

The Deputy glanced around and seemed to catch himself. "You stayin' in town?" he asked Raylan, dropping the volume of his voice just a shade.

Raylan nodded. "Got no intention of sayin' where, though," he looked at the three assailants, made it obvious why.

"I can find you easy enough, Marshal," the Deputy said. "Take him back there and I'll come get his statement later."

He turned away, signalled the conversation was over. Raylan didn't argue. He turned, got a grip on Tim's arm and dragged him out of the alleyway.


	4. Chapter 4

_Tim was 12 and he was lonely but he'd die before he would admit that. When Meredith Rodham walked the long walk up the road to the house to ask him to come with him for her birthday, he was honestly confused. He had a few 'friends', people he spoke to, maybe even occasionally ate lunch in the general vicinity of. But real friends who he had plans to see every day of the summer were not something he was familiar with. To be asked, specifically invited to someone elses birthday was strange for him, strange enough to suspect there was some sinister motive behind it, and he called her out to her face._

 _But she insisted. And Tim could read people and he could do it very well and he couldn't see the lie he thought she was telling him._

 _So, cautiously, he agreed. And took a short cut from his house down into town and when they reached the built up settlement of homes and stores Meredith turned a corner and they began to walk to Millers General Store._


End file.
